


what matters

by Cazaan (sailor_muffin)



Series: Concerning James Bond [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: James Bond Has Issues, Other, Sexual Violence, Violence, not nice at all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 05:22:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17400824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailor_muffin/pseuds/Cazaan
Summary: James knew he was a bad person, but he wasn't a monster.





	what matters

**Author's Note:**

> This is my very first fanfiction in English, not being a native speaker, and also my first in this fandom. Feedback is very much appreciated!

James knew he was a bad person, but he wasn't a monster.

 

When he was younger, twelve or thirteen, there was this boy in his class. He doesn't remember his name, which is good. A name would make it more real, without it it was easier to pretend it had happened to someone else. A story he had heard, maybe from a book, or a movie he had seen years ago.  
The boy had been small, even smaller than most of the girls in his class, chubby, with a wild mob of black hair and big, blue eyes. Quiet and shy and so very smart. He was always raising his hand in class, always getting that little, proud smile on his face when he got a test back.  
Children are cruel, and what started with name-calling and orange juice being poured over his books evolved into shoving and finally beatings that left him bleeding and sobbing on the ground. He never told the adults, never fought back, never did anything.

James could have helped him. He could have gotten between him and his tormentors. Become an ally to this kid. It would have been at the cost of his own reputation, maybe even his own safety, but at least the boy wouldn't have to be alone any more. Maybe the boy wouldn't have become even quieter, with a sad hunch in his shoulders and the twitchyness of a hunted animal around him, always suspecting the next blow from the children around him. 

He didn't. Not because he was afraid for himself, even if he told himself that. He knew deep down that that wasn't the reason.  
Truth was, James spent hours and hours following the boy around on his daily journeys at school, always at a distance, never too obvious. James watched. Every kick and shove and blow, every nasty word and casual act of cruelty. He didn't join, of course. Never touched him. Never even talked to him once. Only those rare moments, when it would become too much, he would stumble into the boys room and lock himself in one of the stalls and press the palm of his hand between his legs, where he was hard and desperate, and feel faintly ill.

And when the day was over and the boy was slouching home, feet dragging and a handkerchief pressed to a sluggishly bleeding nose he stared after him and imagined...

He could have followed him. Maybe cornered him behind the gym, where there would be just the two of them, no one to see, to interrupt. He would have punched him, maybe in the stomach, two, three precise blows aimed to knock the wind out of the boy, to bring him down to his knees. Pathetic. Weak. James would free his aching cock and jerk off over him, paint the plaint, shaking body beneath him with stripes of cum, like a predator marking his prey.

But he wouldn't. He didn't. Because James was a bad person, not a monster.

(The boy was gone at the beginning of the next year. Transferred to a different school. Good. James hoped he lived through it. He hoped that years went by and by now, the boy would be sitting at a breakfast table on a Saturday, his black mop of hair thinning at the top, still chubby, his eyes still big and blue, reading his paper, surrounded by a pretty wife and a couple of beautiful children, successful and content and no longer thinking about childhood and cruelty and humiliation. Because James may be a bad man but he wasn't a monster.)

 

The new Q was ridiculous. Skinny boy with thick glasses. Arrogant. Clever. So clearly in over his head. He painted over his insecurities with a posh, crisp voice and a cool, unimpressed gaze but it was so very obvious.  
Those small moments, where his voice shook slightly, a little stutter, an insecure joke, a few fast, sudden blinks, whenever something happened that brought him out of his equilibrium, that surprised him.  
James caught himself wanting to do it again and again. Needling. Mocking. Provoking. Going against expectations. Just to see the resolve of this, this boy, falter. This boy dressed in ridiculous cardigans, like a little kid playing dress up in his father's clothes, playing at being a grown up, at being ready for a world that was so much bigger that he could ever imagine.

James wanted... but he would never. Never ever. Because he was a bad person, not a monster. Because he knew that, if he would do something, there would be consequences. Large, horrible consequences.  
Q was still his superior. Still a part of this valuable, delicate machine that kept him alive on his missions and fucking with this could destroy so much. Everything, in fact. So he didn't. Because he wasn't a monster and he wasn't an idiot and so he teased his Q gently, even flirting at times, watching the faint pinkness tint the top of his ears and the confused smile on his soft, wide lips and kept himself at bay. 

 

James wasn't a monster, except when he could be.  
The job was quick and dirty. No retrieval of intelligence. No interrogations. Just an assassination. Find and kill the target. Easy. So easy.  
Except the target was a skinny little hacker, with soft, reddish hair and green eyes hidden behind thick glasses. Responsible for dozens, if not hundreds of deaths.  
He was Q, if he wouldn't be on their payroll. Or at least close enough.

James could have just put a bullet between his eyes. He didn't. Instead he put a bullet in his shoulder and his leg, left him bleeding and crippled and crying on the floor while killing every one of his bodyguards in the building.  
Then James came back for him, with a smile on this face and all the time in the world. 

He cried. Cursed. Begged and pleaded. Offered him money and power and everything he could ever want, all while lying in his sticky, bright red blood, a dark stain on the front of his pants. His panicked, pain-fogged eyes found their way between James' legs, widening at the obvious erection that has been there since the first bullet he put into the boy (the terrorist, the murderer). 

“I'll... I'll suck your cock. I'll do it. I swear. Please. Just please... I'll make it good. So good, just... I'll make it last forever... don't kill me, please...”

James smiled. Knelt over him, hands wrapped around a skinny, white, sweat-drenched neck and strangled him slowly, almost gently. Almost lovingly. Until his trachea gave way and he gave his final, sweetly desperate choke, eyes bulging and face red and it was over and James couldn't help the deep sigh of satisfaction, cock hard and mind pleasingly blank.

When he was back in Q branch two days later, his equipment was not just all accounted for but also almost completely intact. Q gave that surprised, pleased smile that made James hands twitch.  
“Well, this is an exciting, new development. Anything about this mission that made you especially considerate towards my tech?”

James wanted. He wanted to say:  
“I tortured a person because he reminded me of you. He felt like you, all boisterous until you took away his toys and protection and then he was just a scared little kid, crying and pissing himself. I killed him and thought of you and afterwards I went to my cheap hotel room and jerked off because it felt so fucking good.”  
He wanted to see Q's face, gentle green eyes growing large behind his glasses, mouth hanging open, not able to grasp whether this was a horrible joke or something else, something he should genuinely be afraid of, something dark and dangerous, because James killed so many people, what would be someone more? Someone like him, skinny and defenceless? 

He didn't. Because he wasn't a monster, unless his job allowed it. Then he let go, let this dark, horrible thing inside him loose, but afterwards he put it back behind bars. And then he was James again. And James wasn't a monster. So he didn't say anything, just turned around and walked out, feeling Q's eyes and mild confusion on his back. He didn't. He wouldn't.

 

But he thought about it. Which was alright. Because thinking about it made him a bad person, but not a monster. And that was alright. That was enough.

He thought about walking up to him when he was all alone, sitting at his little desk, typing away, cup of tea curling up smoke next to him, proper little boy. He could just grab him. He would struggle, of course. Confused and angry, demanding to know what was going on. But James was so much stronger than him. Q was made to work behind a keyboard. So very dangerous behind a screen and with his hands working on gadgets, but without those he wouldn't stand a chance. Not against James, who was so very good at killing, hurting, restraining. 

So easy. He'd press him down on the table, one hand grabbing his neck, pinning him down, the other tying his slender wrists behind his back. Maybe with James' tie. Not too tight. Wouldn't do to hurt the boy unnecessarily. 

Afterwards, he would take the boy's own tie off. Quickly and efficiently slip it off his neck and shove it balled up into his mouth, gagging him, silencing the cascade of words that would undoubtedly be tumbling out of him at that point. 

Tying up his skinny legs would be next. He'd take off Q's belt, looping it around his knees and pulling it tight. Nice and secure. No longer able to do anything to stop this, Q would struggle even harder for a moment, panic overwhelming him. Screaming muffled behind his gag. 

James would talk to him then, a gentle, cruel voice through his frenzy.  
“Go on. Fight. Maybe this time will be enough to break the binds and you can run. Maybe the next scream will be loud enough though the gag that someone will hear you and come for your aid. But maybe, maybe all you are doing is tiring yourself out. Making our body more and more sluggish. Weak. Unable to resist. All the more easy for me.”

He would stop then. One final, desperate sob and he would lie limp and unmoving on the table, his laptop and tea cup on the floor. Broken.

He'd pick him up then. Lift his skinny burden on his shoulder. Q might struggle for a moment, if just for the sudden change in his position and the shoulder burrowing into his soft stomach. A sad little wiggle that would stop immediately when James would give him a sharp slap on his ass. And then two more slaps, simply because he could and because Q's whole body would start trembling ever so slightly.

No one would stop him. No one would dare. James would walk out of MI6 with his Quartermaster over his shoulder and people would look after him and quickly turn away their gaze.  
(They would all be there, Tanner and M and Moneypenny, they would see and they would do nothing because Q was his, his twitchy, brilliant little boffin, and when he decided that he was going to take him, what the hell was it their business?)

He would put him in the trunk of his car. He'd have a blanket in there, several, in fact. Laying him on one of them, carefully, another one rolled up beneath his head, a third one wrapped around his still trembling body. He'd be gentle before closing the lid, removing his glasses, smoothing the palm of his hand over green eyes, feeling the soft trickle of long, delicate lashes.

“Shh. It's all right. Close your eyes. Won't be long.”

He'd drive him back to his flat. This empty sad excuse for living quarters, that smelled more of dust than himself, with boxes littered throughout and a mass of paintings he never got around to hanging up on the wall. But it was his and it was safe and it was the only place he could take his quarry, so it was good enough.

He'd carry him inside, drop him right on his bed. Where he belonged. Q would start struggling again, making small, desperate noises behind his gag. That was all right. James would chuckle at that, at this pathetic little creature, trying to get away when it was already way, way too late.

He'd untie his hands, gripping first one, then the other tightly and tying them to the bedpost. After that, the same with his legs. Leaving Q spread on his stomach, stretched out and helpless. Uselessly blinking his eyes, so naked without his glasses. Could he even see? Was everything a blur of colours and shapes?

Next he would continue taking. His shoes. His socks. (Maybe he'd have one or two small holes in them, neglect in places where he had thought no one would see, but James would.) He would cut off his clothes with surgical scissors, slowly and carefully. Leave him bare. Completely without shelter.

Q would be so very, very pale out of his clothes. Painfully skinny legs, small ass, bony back, rips and shoulders standing out in stark contrast.  
He'd probably have a few moles on his back, one or two little pimples, a smattering of soft, downy hair in the crack of his butt and down his legs. He wouldn't be flawless like so many of the beautiful women James had fucked over the years. 

This would be the moment in which James would remove the gag. Gently prying those lips apart and freeing the sad, spit-soaked piece of fabric from his mouth. Q would blink up at him, mouth opening and closing a few times, swallowing, finally croaking out (so different from his usual, controlled, cold little voice)  
“... stop... just let me... James, stop this...”

He'd shove the gag back in. Just to see that outraged look on his face. Just to prove that he could.

Then he would get the whip. Nine straps of soft, worn leather. Short and easy to handle. Control was important. This wasn't about causing pain, after all.

He'd start at the bottom. Whipping his calves. Slowly working his way up. His thighs. His ass. His back. His shoulders. Keeping every stroke even. Leaving behind skin that was glowing red and hot, but not broken. 

Q would scream and struggle at first. Cursing behind his gag. Threatening him. Then, threats would give way to pleas, to bargaining, to outright begging, until he would just be wordlessly sobbing and then not even that. When James would be done and he'd put the whip down, Q would lie still and quiet. Submissive. Pliant. 

Finally. 

“Well done. My perfect boy. You did so good. Taking it so beautifully.”

He would take care of him then. Take out the gag. Get the tube of cooling Aloe Vera and carefully spread it over his abused skin. Q would sigh softly at that, becoming even more boneless under him, relaxing into his hands. Quiet. Surrendering.  
He would gently clean his face with a wet wash-cloth, leaving it splotchy and red but free of tears and snot and spit. He would get Q a glass of water with a straw and make him drink all of it in little sips. 

Q would be so very tired after all this, probably already half asleep. James would pull up a chair and sit next to him. Watch him sleep, still safely tied to the bed. Not too tight, of course. But secure. And then, when his breath has evened out James would take his cock out and unhurriedly jack off, content just to watch. Just to know that Q was his.

(James didn't enjoy fucking men. He had done it, of course. When a mission required it or when there was no alternative and while he could make himself climax, it was nothing like sex with a woman. Nothing like the softness of them, their high moans, their firm breasts, their sweet smells. He didn't want to fuck the boy. Somehow, that made all of this even worse.)

 

He would think about it. Jerk himself off thinking about it. Indulge in it whenever a mission allowed it. But he would never, ever do it. Because he may be a bad man, but he wasn't a monster.

 

Really.


End file.
